


Freedom's Burning

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:31:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What we want, and what we tell ourselves we want, are not always the same.<br/>Klaus deals with a group of urban guerrillas, an English rock band, and a thief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kadira and Anne-Li (Anneli) for beta. Their sharp eyes and their instincts for a good story made this much better than it might otherwise have been.

_Heat and cold are a matter of discipline_ , Klaus reminded himself, as the clammy chill seeped into his bones and the fog rolled in off the harbour. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes past midnight.

Cramped up inside a battered delivery van, Klaus and two of his agents were watching, waiting. The courier they’d been tailing for the last week was expected to come to this isolated spot on the edge of the docklands tonight to meet his contact. Intercepting the hand-over would give them the first solid piece of evidence they needed to explain why the Purification Brigade had suddenly activated its communication networks across Europe. 

‘Anti-imperialist urban guerrillas’, they called themselves. ‘Fucking terrorists,’ that’s what Klaus thought of them: a pack of rabid communist fanatics who wanted to bring down democracy and see communism triumphant across Europe. NATO Intelligence had been keeping them under low level surveillance for years. The Purification Brigade had always been a small organisation, long on rhetoric and short on action, and largely uncoordinated. Until now. Something was afoot, and NATO Intelligence needed to know what it was.

Outside the van, the fog began to thicken.

_Fucking Istanbul._

He hadn’t been in Istanbul since 1984. Nearly three years ago. He’d almost died on that mission, trying to recover stolen goods from the Russians – a top secret computer-enhancement device. He hadn’t succeeded. The KGB had got away with their ‘Black Box’, and Klaus had nearly been killed trying to stop them. 

Later, while he was still in hospital, he’d learned he hadn’t been intended to succeed. The bloody thing was designed to malfunction, so the KGB’s victory had been a hollow one. 

The memory still disgusted him. Istanbul disgusted him.

“Sir!” Agent Z sat up, fully alert, his eyes pressed close to the narrow slit in the side of the van that let him see the deserted roadway.

Klaus joined him, peering out. 

A man walked along the empty road to a bench at the bus stop, and sat down, placing an attaché case under the seat.

“That’s him. That’s the courier. Z, B – get ready to move.” 

There was no traffic. All was quiet. About five minutes passed, and a second man came into view. 

“Here’s the contact. Stand by.”

B and Z checked their firearms. Klaus watched the target, ready to give the signal.

As the contact neared the bench, the courier looked up. The contact reached inside his overcoat, drew a gun, and fired two bullets into the courier’s forehead. 

The doors of the van burst open; the agents leaped out and opened fire. Their target, taken by surprise, gaped in confusion, and before he could return fire, a bullet struck him in the leg. He fell heavily, dropping his gun, and the agents were on him in an instant. The wounded gunman, his victim, and the attaché case were all bundled into the van, and they drove to a Turkish Army base where secure rooms had been set aside for their use. 

.

.

.

Rasim Topal shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair, his elbows on the tabletop and his head cradled in his hands. His leg wound throbbed dully. The first aid given in the van had been rough and ready, and the jolting of the vehicle as they drove to this place had hurt like nothing else he’d ever experienced. He’d been nearly out of his mind with pain and nausea by the time they arrived. Then, two medics had shot him full of painkillers, mumbling to each other about blood loss and antibiotics and shock, talking across him as if he was an insensible piece of meat with no interest in what was happening. Nobody had talked to him at all. As soon as he’d been bandaged up, they’d brought him to this bare, cold room and left him here.

He shifted in his seat again, and longed for coffee and a cigarette. His leg felt as if it belonged to someone else – for which he was grateful, because he knew that when those painkillers started to wear off it was going to hurt like a bitch.

How long had he been here now? At least two hours. He imagined someone would come in soon to question him. That’s what he’d been told to expect if ever he was captured. Questioning. Detention. Trial. Imprisonment. 

The Brigade wouldn’t try to get him out of here. He knew he was expendable – they all were. The Brigade taught its recruits: “We are all expendable – only The Cause endures”. That’s what he’d been doing when he was shot and captured – ensuring that The Cause was served, by eliminating the courier who’d been deemed expendable.

Behind him, the door opened. Topal twisted in his seat to see. A guard in military uniform stepped into the room and stood just inside the door. Next, a tall man with a forbidding expression on his face strode in and sat in the chair at the opposite side of the table. Topal watched him warily.

Cold-eyed, the man smiled.

Topal quailed. He couldn’t help it. That smile was like the smile of Death.

So what now? _Questioning. Detention. Trial. Imprisonment._ He knew that sometimes ‘Torture’ featured on that list too. He had no doubt the man facing him across the table was capable of inflicting torture. He knew he’d never be able to withstand it. His stomach turned over. Capture, and all that might follow, had existed only as a kind of theoretical possibility when first he joined the Brigade. Young, idealistic and fresh from involvement in student politics at university, he was sure then that he’d be willing to face anything to free the deluded masses from imperialist expansion and capitalist exploitation. Now, looking Death’s twin in the face, he wasn’t so sure he was up to the task.

“So.” The man broke the silence. “You’re a Purification Brigade operative, and you’ve just killed one of your own men. Why?”

Topal felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. In the four years since he’d joined the Purification Brigade, he’d carried messages and shifted packages, he’d engaged in meetings where idealistic believers made speeches that stirred the blood. None of that had prepared him for the reality of killing and death, the weight of a gun in his own hand – nor for the fear of what might happen to him now, in the hands of these nameless men who might torture him or kill him without anyone knowing he’d even been captured. 

His interrogator stood up and leaned across the table, fixing him with a chilly green glare. “Did you hear me, you worthless piece of shit? I asked you a question!”

“I have nothing to say,” he mumbled. 

“What? I didn’t hear you. Why did you kill one of your own men?”

Topal felt sick. His stomach heaved, threatening to empty its contents onto the floor. There’d been training sessions about how to hold out under interrogation; the instructions had all made sense at the time, but with this terrifying brute towering over him, he felt his courage fading. To his shame, he realised he must look as frightened as he felt.

A few minutes of enduring his interrogator’s hectoring, a few minutes of fearful resistance, and he let go of any pretensions he’d had to stoicism or loyalty. Topal threw up his hands, defeated. “All right, all right. I admit it. I was working for the Purification Brigade. The dead man was a Brigade courier. I killed him on their orders.” 

As soon as he’d made the admission, he slumped hopelessly in his chair. “There, I’ve signed my own death warrant. They’ll kill me for admitting that. They’ll know; they always know. It’ll make no difference whether I’m in prison or not: they’ll find me and kill me.”

His interrogator smiled icily. “Then you have nothing more to lose, do you? So tell me what the man had done to make the Brigade order his death.”

“He’d done nothing. The Brigade’s liquidating its old courier network. They’re moving into attack configuration, and the old couriers are no longer necessary.” Topal swallowed down the sour taste that rose in his throat, ashamed of every word but too terrified to put up any resistance. “The couriers know too much about the Brigade’s work. Now they’re of no further use, it’s easier to kill them than keep them quiet.” 

_We are all expendable – only The Cause endures._

“Attack configuration – what does that mean? What’s the Brigade planning?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, you don’t expect me to believe that. Their communication networks have come to life all over Europe. What are they up to?”

“I tell you, I don’t know.” Topal’s mouth was dry; his throat felt constricted and his heart was racing. It was true: he didn’t know. What would this brute do to him if he couldn’t answer? Would this be when the torture started? He tried to placate the man: “Nobody in the Brigade knows all the information. We’re only told what we need to know.”

His interrogator fixed him with an ominous gaze. “The blueprints.”

“What blueprints?”

“God damn it! The blueprints you picked up from the courier. We went through the attaché case, and found blueprints for a building.”

Topal’s eyes darted nervously from side to side. He knew so little – but what lengths would his captors go to before they believed that? Before they gave up?

“Come on!” the man barked. “You’ve got nothing to lose. If you cooperate, we might make your last days comfortable for you while you wait for your comrades to send your executioner to visit. The blueprints! What are they for?”

Topal slumped back into his hopeless posture. “They’re the plans for a building that will be used in the next stage. I don’t know what the building is, or where it is. I was to pass them on to my next contact.”

“This air ticket.” The interrogator pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and dangled it in front of Topal’s face. “This was in the case with the blueprints. Is this where you have to meet your contact? Düsseldorf? Somewhere else in Germany?”

“I don’t know. They were only going to send the instructions just before I had to leave.”

“So, tell me about this next stage. What will the building be used for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” The tall man pounded the table top angrily, got up and walked away across the room, rubbing his temples furiously. “You can’t be as ignorant as that! You know what’s going on—”

“I tell you, I don’t know! The Brigade only discloses details to the people who are to act on them!”

“Fuck the details! You know what the operation is about! You talk about shifting into attack configuration, moving to the next stage. Next stage of what? What’s the Brigade planning?”

The half-forgotten directions he’d heard in those long-ago training sessions echoed faintly in Topal’s mind. “ _Remain impassive. Do not let yourself show fear or anger. Do not be misled by promises of kindness or reward. Give no information that may harm The Cause. Speak only of our ideals._ ”

He surged upright in his chair, suddenly energetic. “You know what the Brigade stands for! We want to purify Europe, clear out the scourge of imperialist corruption that’s dragging our people towards perdition! We want to bring the pure ideals of Communism to heal our decadent society! So the Brigade’s making ready, recruiting the soldiers we need for the task ahead!” 

“Save the speeches!” the interrogator snarled. “I don’t want to hear your party rhetoric. You talk about healing – but you’re recruiting fighters. Doesn’t that sound contradictory to you?”

Topal glowered belligerently. _Give no information that may harm The Cause. Speak only of our ideals._

“We want to purify Europe. Once Europe has been delivered from corruption, the people will be free.”

“And what kind of freedom would that be?”

“Freedom from imperialist power. Freedom from the oppression of the many in pursuit of wealth for the few. That’s freedom worth fighting for! That’s the freedom we choose! And we’ll break the grip of imperialist power by removing the power brokers who wield it!”

“Assassination. That’s what you’re talking about.” 

The truth was, Topal didn’t know exactly what the Brigade was gearing up for, but as soon as the word was spoken he knew his interrogator had hit on the right answer. 

He glared sullenly, and ground out, “I tell you, I don’t know.” His burst of energy was ebbing away fast. He mumbled, “All I know is, the Brigade has been recruiting men.”

“Names?” the man prompted.

_Give no information that may harm The Cause. We are all expendable – only The Cause endures._

Topal screwed his mouth up into an unwilling knot, but fear of what his captors might do to him was outweighing his ideals. He slumped back in his chair, beaten. 

“All right; I’m dead anyway. Names, then. Dmitri Vasnetsov and Kadir Solak.”

No reaction showed on the tall man’s face. The wintry green eyes bored into Topal’s, as if they could see right into his mind, sorting truth from fiction. 

_We are all expendable – only The Cause endures._ Silently, he repeated it over and over as a kind of mantra, trying to keep up what little courage he had left.

Abruptly, the interrogator turned away and strode across to where the guard stood just inside the door. Topal heard him say, “Give the prisoner some water, and make sure the medics check him in an hour’s time.” Then the door opened and closed, and Topal was alone again. 

.

.

.

Klaus joined his men in the next room, where they’d been watching the interrogation through a one-way observation panel. Agent B handed the Major a mug of Nescafe. Gratefully, Klaus took a sip, and sat with his men at the observation bench.

“Didn’t take you long to get him talking, sir,” B remarked.

Klaus snorted contemptuously. “Amateurs! These idiots join political factions and then find themselves out of their depth when things get serious. He was ready to piss himself before I got started.” 

He swallowed down the rest of his coffee and set the mug on the table in front of him.

“So. What do we have? We’re still unsure of what the Brigade is planning to do; possibly an assassination, but not necessarily. We’ve got blueprints for a building that will play a part, but we don’t know what it is or where. We have a one way plane ticket to Düsseldorf, two days from now, suggesting whatever is to happen might take place in Germany – but again, it’s not certain. The prisoner could have been lying – but I doubt it. The way he was quaking in his boots, I’d say he didn’t know much. The most solid piece of information is the names of the men who are to carry out the task, whatever it may be.” 

“Who are Vasnetsov and Solak, sir?” B asked. “I’m not familiar with the names.”

“Dmitri Vasnetsov and Kadir Solak are both explosives experts. Solak was in prison for his part in a series of bombings in Eastern Turkey in 1985. Just two months ago, he escaped. Vasnetsov is a mercenary, a murderous bastard who’d blow up his own grandmother’s house for a fee. As far as I’m aware, Vasnetsov and Solak have never worked together before, but if they’ve joined forces, they’ll be a formidable team.” 

“Explosives experts? I don’t get it.” Z’s face wore a puzzled frown. “I mean, it’s a clumsy method for an assassination. Unless— unless they mean to kill more than one person.”

Klaus looked grim. “Exactly. Multiple targets, and a highly visible method of taking them out. These political fanatics can never resist the grand gesture. Agent B – get in touch with Bonn. Get L to do some research – find out if there are any events coming up in the next two or three weeks that might be targets for a bomb attack. Politicians, business leaders – whoever the Purification Brigade might see as ‘power brokers’. Tell him to have something for me by the time we get back tomorrow evening.” He glanced at his watch. “Make that ‘this evening’. And get the others onto tracking down Vasnetsov and Solak. We need to know where they are.”

The three finished their business at the army base, and went back to the hotel to grab a couple of hours sleep before their late-afternoon flight back to Bonn. They’d be going in to headquarters when they landed, Klaus reminded the others, and they needed to function.

Back in his room, Klaus closed the drapes, collapsed onto the bed, and made himself to go to sleep. When he woke up, two hours had passed, and he didn’t feel refreshed. His sleep had been full of half-remembered fragments of dreams. Fishing boats on the Bosporus. Struggling with an opponent on a high tower, his feet slipping on a narrow foothold. Running through subterranean tunnels that were falling in on him. A red shirt, framing shapely arms. Shapely male arms.

Groaning, Klaus rolled off the bed and opened the drapes. The afternoon sun slanted into the room. 

_Fucking Istanbul._ He looked at his watch. _Time to go._

He went to call the others.


	2. Chapter 2

The Intelligence Office on the fifth floor was still a hive of activity in the otherwise empty NATO building when Klaus and his men arrived shortly before ten pm. Klaus stormed through the outer office, a whirlwind of caffeine-fuelled energy, trailed by B and Z. 

“Agent L! My office! Now!”

L scrambled after them. The three agents crowded into the small inner office, where Klaus nodded at them to sit down. 

“Bomb targets. What have you got, L?”

“Nothing conclusive yet, sir—”

“You’ve had all day! What’s the hold-up?”

“Sir, another Purification Brigade courier has been found dead. In Düsseldorf.”

“Düsseldorf! Details?”

“An Englishman. His name was Liam Carter.” Agent L handed Klaus a photograph, taken after death. It showed a man of around thirty, pale skinned, with long dark hair. There were no visible wounds. 

“He’s been under low level surveillance for two years, sir. He’s carried packages for the Brigade all across Europe. He travels a lot – he’s a musician in a rock band. He was found dead in his hotel room this morning.”

_A rock band. Just what I need: a bunch of drug-taking, sex-mad layabouts with no discipline. Give me a heavily-armed assassin any day._

“The band’s called Left-Handed Hummingbird,” L was saying, “They’re touring Europe. They’ve already played in France and Belgium, and they’re supposed to be in Germany for ten days. They arrived in Düsseldorf the day before yesterday. It’s all in your briefing folder, sir.”

“Who found him?”

“Other members of the band. The surveillance team picked up the call to the emergency services, and we got our pathologist into the post mortem. Officially, the cause of death is recorded as ‘cardiac arrest’.”

Klaus frowned. “At his age?”

“Cocaine user, sir. It’s not unheard of for cocaine users to die of heart attacks, even when they’re young and otherwise healthy.”

“You said, ‘officially’. What did he really die of?”

“Our pathologist spotted a puncture mark on his ankle. See?” L laid another photograph on the Major’s desk. It showed a close-up of the dead man’s foot, a needle mark barely visible on the pallid skin. “Tests confirmed that he’d been injected with a hefty dose of potassium chloride. So, technically, the official cause of death is correct: cardiac arrest – but not from the cocaine.”

“All right; we need to follow this up. The prisoner in Turkey told us the Purification Brigade is eliminating its couriers – easier than trying to shut them up, he said. The courier in Istanbul was killed as he made his handover; most likely, Carter was killed by his contact at the handover, too. We need to find out who his contact was, and try to recover the information that was passed. All of you – get on to it. Background on the dead man; background on his associates. Forensic evidence from the murder scene. Whatever it takes. Reports tomorrow at 1400 hours.”

.

.

.

Taking his place at the head of the conference table the next afternoon, Klaus grimaced in disgust at the pin-board on the meeting room wall, which was now dominated by a large colour poster of Left-Handed Hummingbird. The five band members gazed out of the picture with intense, sultry expressions.

_Bloody degenerates. Why did this damned courier have to be a rock musician?_ Klaus slapped his briefing folder down on the table top.

“Right, gentlemen. Liam Carter, the dead courier. We need to find out who his contact in the Purification Brigade was, and track down the intelligence he passed on before he was killed. We need to ascertain whether any of the others he was travelling with knew about his connections with the Brigade, and whether any of them had Brigade connections themselves. Any clues about who Carter trusted would be useful; any information about what he might have known. Agent B, you were looking into Carter’s background.”

B took a deep breath and launched into his presentation. 

“Well, he’s been a professional musician since he left school at eighteen. As a result, he’s travelled a lot, and he seems to have done work for the Purification Brigade in multiple countries across Europe. We know he was a Brigade courier for at least two years; it’s not certain exactly when he was recruited, or by whom. There’s no obvious explanation as to why he got involved with the Purification Brigade. He seems not to have had any particular political associations – not a member of any party, was never a student activist.”

“Family?”

“Mother and father both dead. One brother, who lives in Canada. They didn’t keep in touch. The person Carter seems to have been closest to was Richard Waterford, the front man in the band. Carter did have a girlfriend; they were together for four years and they had a child, a girl. The girlfriend wanted Carter to settle down and give up the drugs, but he wouldn’t, so they split up. Apparently they remained in touch because of the kid, but they weren’t really on good terms. The child’s three years old now. Carter paid a generous allowance every month for her maintenance, and he had a life insurance policy naming her as beneficiary.”

Klaus’s expression sharpened. “I want to see a copy of the policy, and details of the terms and conditions.”

“Already done, sir. The policy was with Lyme Harrison and Associates; they specialise in high-risk clients, and if people are prepared to pay enough they’ll insure just about anything the other companies wouldn’t take on.” B laid a faxed document on the table. “We contacted Lyme Harrison, told them we were Special Branch, and said we needed a copy of the policy for the investigation into Carter’s death. You’ll see when you read it that they charged him an extra loading to waive the usual exclusionary clauses about drug use.”

A predatory light kindled in Klaus's eyes. “Right. That’s our way in. I want you to set up a meeting at the hotel where the band is staying for you and me to talk to Richard Waterford and whoever else we can. We’re insurance investigators with Lyme Harrison and Associates – following up on the potential payout of one of our special policies. Set it up for tomorrow morning. Be insistent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Agent L, what have you found out?”

L looked uncomfortable as he straightened up to speak. “We’ve looked into where the band has been playing since they’ve been on tour, and where their itinerary takes them next. As far as we can tell, Liam Carter’s first contact with the Brigade on this tour was in Düsseldorf, the night he was murdered. He may have been carrying the package with him since they left England, or he may have picked it up at a dead drop somewhere on tour.”

“None of that’s very conclusive. Any indications that any of the others knew about Carter’s connection with the Brigade? Or had Brigade connections themselves?”

“No, sir.”

“Come on, you idiot! Agent B and I are going in to talk to these people tomorrow. We need background we can use!”

“Sir, Carter and Waterford were close; had been for a long time. They were friends at school, they’d been in bands together since they were about eighteen. If Carter was going to confide in anyone, it would be Waterford.”

“So what can you tell me about Waterford?”

L and Z exchanged awkward glances.

“Well, sir,” Z faltered, “we – er – we’ve got a videotape of a recent press call. This was filmed five weeks ago, just before they started their European tour. It’s the full footage, not the edited piece that was shown on the TV. Mostly, the camera’s on Waterford – but the other band members do feature in the interview.” Z swallowed hard, glancing uneasily at Klaus. “And at the end, we get to see some of the other – er – members of the band’s entourage.”

Klaus frowned at Z, puzzled. Why was the young idiot hesitating like that? 

“Well, get on with it!” he ordered irritably.

Agent L dimmed the lights, and Z pressed ‘play’. 

The questions thrown at the band by the press were of the predictable sort. Klaus huffed contemptuously as one bland question followed another. “What inspired the new material on your latest recording?” “Do you expect sales to exceed your last album?” “Will you be touring America?” 

Most of the questions were fielded by Richard Waterford, whose cultured tones surprised Klaus. When he’d seen the first pictures of Waterford – the masses of tawny hair, the jewellery, the tattoos, the aggressively bohemian clothing – he’d been unimpressed. Listening to the interview, Klaus grudgingly acknowledged that Waterford sounded intelligent and well-educated.

One of the journalists directed a question at Liam Carter, and the camera zoomed in on him as he answered. Klaus paid close attention but nothing Carter said seemed to be significant in any way. Watching the body language between Carter and his fellow musicians, Klaus concluded that they were all very relaxed with each other; there were no signs of distrust or animosity. Carter and Waterford did seem to be close. There was a lot of banter between them, and when a question was addressed to the two of them, they finished each other’s sentences like a long-married couple. 

Klaus wondered what had led Carter to become involved with a group of communist zealots. Ideological motives? Thrill-seeking? Blackmail? Had the man ever thought about the potential consequences of the choices he’d made?

The press conference lasted about thirty minutes. At the end, the camera kept rolling as band members and reporters alike got up and began to move out of the room. A door opened at the side, just at the edge of the camera-shot. Two band members went out; another man came in and began unplugging the microphones. A journalist drifted in front of the camera, blocking the lens. Just as he moved out of the way, someone else came through the door, walked up to Waterford, and hugged him. Their embrace was more than friendly. 

_That’s a man_ , Klaus realised. 

Waterford and the other man pulled apart, smiling at each other.

The other man was Eroica.

“What the hell is he doing there?” Klaus exploded. 

Z swallowed. “Sir, Eroica’s travelling with the band on their European tour. He’s—” He swallowed again. “He’s Richard Waterford’s lover, sir.”

The Alphabets braced themselves for Klaus’s next outburst of invective – but it didn’t come. He sat as still as a carved statue, his face unreadable in the semi-darkness. 

At last, he turned to Agent L and snapped, “Put the bloody lights on, man.” 

He looked around at the faces of his agents. Their expressions were wary, waiting to see how he’d react.

“Thank you, Herr Z, that was most informative. We could do without that bloody nuisance getting tangled up in this, but at least we know what he’s like. So Waterford’s a shirt-lifter, is he? No surprise. Rock bands are full of deviants of one type or another.” 

Shoving his papers back into the manila folder, Klaus glared around the table. “Agent L – we still need a likely target for this bomb attack. Make it a priority, and then check those blueprints against what you find out. Come on then, back to work. You’ve all got plenty to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Klaus woke before the alarm, jolted out of a dream he couldn’t remember. He was sweating slightly, and his cock strained at his pyjama pants. He tried for a moment to recall what he’d been dreaming about, but gave up. His hand brushed across his erection. Should he get up early, have a cold shower, go for a longer than usual run? No, he decided; sometimes it was best to go with the demands of nature. He wrapped his hand around his cock.

He closed his eyes, and focused on the mental image of the last woman he’d slept with. He’d met her in Barcelona, three months before. Lush, full lips and thick brown hair, she spoke German to him in bed, with a lilting Spanish accent. His breathing deepened. 

_So red; her lips were so red… her tongue so pink… so wet…_

Klaus gasped, tightening his grip – and in the moment before orgasm, the woman’s face disappeared and a different image flooded his mind: a man with vivid blue eyes and a tumbling mass of blond curly hair. 

He came so hard it almost hurt.

Klaus lay still, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He felt disgusted with himself. 

Sexual urges were a matter of discipline, just like heat and cold. Klaus kept his under strict control. A man had sexual urges, that was only natural, but they had to be managed. Otherwise, they got in the way. His encounters with women were infrequent and impersonal. In between times, when it became necessary, he took matters in hand. Any attraction Klaus may have had to his own gender had been very firmly stamped on back in his early days in the military. As for emotional attachments, they were out of the question: nothing but an encumbrance. 

So the fact that a flamboyant English nancy-boy had managed to infiltrate his dreams and his unguarded thoughts was infuriating. He had no time for sexual entanglements with anyone, especially not an attention-seeking degenerate like Eroica.

Klaus fumbled around on the bedside cupboard for tissues, and cleaned himself up. 

How long was it since he’d seen the thief? Nearly eighteen months?

After that mission in Istanbul, the thief had seemed to realise at last that he was meddling in things too dangerous for civilians. He’d been there at the end, to see the bloodshed and destruction. That hadn’t stopped him, though. The damned fool kept on turning up in the middle of missions, fluttering his eyelashes and flirting. His behaviour made it easy for Klaus – some loud abuse, the odd slap or punch, and everyone was certain that Major von dem Eberbach was completely outraged. 

Then, about eighteen months ago, it stopped. It seemed that finally, the thief had got the message. 

Klaus had told himself time and again that he should be pleased. In the cold light of day, he believed it; but in his dreams and in those waking moments when he succumbed to his natural urges, he knew it was a lie. He’d wanted the thief. He still wanted him. But there was no power on earth that would make him say that aloud to anyone.

Next to his bed, the alarm shrilled. 6:30. Time to get up. Klaus swung his legs out of bed, scrubbed his hands over his face, and tried to get the last fragments of the thief’s image out of his mind.

He and Agent B were to meet with Waterford at eleven o’clock; B would be here to pick him up in an hour. Waterford hadn’t been cooperative, but B had talked him into it. He’d agreed on condition that the band’s manager could be there too.

Klaus hoped that damned thief wouldn’t be around. If bloody Eroica saw him, their cover was blown. Then, if Waterford or any of the others did have connections with the Purification Brigade – well, back to square one. Another mission fucked up by that bloody pervert.

Huffing crossly, he stomped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

.

.

.

At eleven o’clock precisely, Klaus and B were ushered into the Düsseldorf hotel room that Rob Tyler, the band’s manager, had set up as his office. Piles of posters and boxes of merchandise were heaped in the corners; there was a stack of the band’s CDs on the coffee table ready to be sent off to the radio stations in the next cities. 

“Mr Waterford, Mr Tyler,” B shook hands with them both. “Thank you for agreeing to see us at short notice, at what must be a difficult time for you. I’m Olaf Tauscher; this is my colleague, Herr Ackermann. My card, gentlemen.”

B handed over a business card announcing him as the Senior Special Accounts Manager for Lyme Harrison and Associates, Köln Office. Tyler glanced at it and dropped it on the coffee table.

Klaus shook hands and sat quietly, letting B take the lead.

B nodded toward the pile of CDs. “Left-Handed Hummingbird. Does the name mean anything?”

“Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec god of war,” said Tyler. “He couldn’t live without human blood being shed for him. Left-Handed Hummingbird is probably a mistranslation, but we liked the sound of it.” 

“I see.” B opened up his leather-bound folder on the coffee table. “Gentlemen, first of all, please allow us to express our most sincere condolences. Mr Carter was no doubt a close friend as well as your colleague.”

“He was,” Tyler said. “We’re going to miss him.”

Waterford looked uncomfortable, and said nothing. 

“I imagine that your business here in Germany will be affected by the death of your – er – employee?”

“He wasn’t an employee,” Tyler said. “The band members are all partners in the business. Equal shares. The technical crew are paid wages. I’m paid a salary to manage the business.”

“I see. But surely you’ll have to cancel the rest of your tour?”

At this, Waterford stirred. “We won’t be cancelling. Liam wouldn’t have wanted us to. We’ve agreed to continue the tour with a substitute bass player who was a friend of Liam’s. We’re dedicating tonight’s performance to Liam’s memory.”

“Of course. I see. I can understand why you would want to do that, in spite of your own grief.” B was playing the role of toadying bureaucrat to the hilt. “I’m sure your fans will understand, too.”

“Fuck this,” Waterford grumbled. “Can we just get on with it? It’s bloody distasteful, having to listen to all this hypocritical crap.”

“Richard, it’s OK.” Tyler placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I apologise if I have offended you, Mr Waterford,” soothed B. 

“All right, all right. Just get on with it.”

B then launched into a long-winded explanation about the process for assessing a claim on one of their special policies, emphasising several times that the firm made no judgements about clients’ chosen lifestyles. Then, clipboard in hand, ticking off clauses in the insurance policy as he went, B began to question Waterford and Tyler about their dead colleague. His questions were invasively personal, and it was not long before Waterford protested. B deflected his objections with a disinterested shrug: “Our special policies – you must understand, gentlemen.”

Waterford looked shell-shocked as the barrage of questions continued, probing their dead colleague’s habits, his financial arrangements, his social and political views, his attitude to both his child and the child’s mother, and his other associations. 

Sitting silently, pretending to take notes, Klaus observed Waterford and Tyler closely. B’s smarmy expressions of sympathy at the start, followed by his thick-skinned indifference to their objections, had completely derailed them. After that, they expected to be affronted by anything he said, so they saw no point in further complaint and answered his questions compliantly. Klaus was impressed. 

The meeting lasted nearly an hour. By the end of it, Waterford looked as if he wanted to hit B, and Tyler’s role as peace-maker had stretched his nerves to the limit. 

B screwed the cap back on his pen and tucked it into his top pocket, then carefully replaced all the papers in his folder and zipped it shut. He smiled unctuously at Waterford and Tyler.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your time. Herr Ackermann and I know better than most how harrowing it can be for those who are left behind after an untimely death like Mr Carter’s. Your cooperation is appreciated, and I can assure you that we will now do our utmost to expedite the processing of this policy.” 

He stood, and shook hands with them both once again; Klaus stood and did the same. 

“And, gentlemen, if I may,” B concluded, “I reiterate our sincere condolences.”

.

.

.

Richard Waterford went back to his suite feeling exhausted. He slumped onto the sofa, leaned back and closed his eyes. 

Liam’s death had left him feeling empty; he’d lost his closest friend. Surely he should honour his friend’s memory by mourning for him properly? But he’d had no time to mourn. Yesterday had been filled with emergency business meetings, and decisions about whether to cancel the rest of the tour or continue with a new bass player. Then this morning, he’d had to put up with the insurance company grilling him about Liam’s personal arrangements and his financial affairs. Would there ever be an hour to spare to give in to his grief?

Cool hands pressed against Richard’s forehead. “Are you all right, love? You look tired.”

Richard smiled and opened his eyes. “Dorian. I didn’t hear you sneaking up behind me. Come and talk to me.”

Dorian knelt lightly on the sofa, straddling his lover’s lap. “You should rest, love. You need some time to yourself.” Gently, he threaded his fingers into Richard’s hair, and began massaging his scalp.

“Mmm, that’s nice. I should employ you as my personal masseur.”

Dorian chuckled softly. “I _am_ your personal masseur. I’m about as personal a masseur as you can get.” He worked his fingertips down the back of Richard’s neck. “Christ, love, you’re all knotted up.”

“It’s been a bitch of a day, Dorian. So was yesterday. Liam’s dead, and I haven’t had a moment to think about him since we found him. First it was the police and the ambulance team, then it was all about should we continue the tour or cancel. Then this morning, the bloody insurance company – wanting an excuse not to pay out, I’ll be bound. Bloody vultures, the lot of them.” Richard clasped Dorian’s wrists, stilling his hands. “Dorian, I miss him. He was like a brother to me. I’d known him since I was sixteen.”

Dorian smiled, his eyes soft. “I know what you need, love. Come with me.” He stood up and held out both hands. “Come on, come to bed.”

“Dorian, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“So what? Richard, you need rest, and you need to distract yourself from what’s going on. Come to bed with me – who cares if it’s the middle of the afternoon?”

Richard allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led through into the bedroom. 

With swift, sure hands, Dorian stripped their clothes off and pushed Richard down onto the mattress. 

“Dorian, I’m really not at my best right now—“

His lover silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. “No pressure, no expectations. Whatever happens is your choice. Sleep if you want to.” He sat up and reached for a bottle of lotion on the night-stand. “Now, turn over and let me work those knots out of your neck and shoulders.”

Richard turned over, grateful for Dorian’s soothing presence. “I might go to sleep while you’re doing that.”

“Go to sleep, then. You probably need it.” 

Talented fingers kneaded into tight muscle, unlocking the tensions of the last two days. Richard let his mind relax.

He’d known Dorian for a little more than a year, and it had been lust at first sight. The first week after they met, they hardly got out of bed. He’d never met anyone as beautiful – or as arrogant – and he’d been captivated. He still was. 

Their arrangement seemed the perfect mix. They gave each other the freedom to do whatever their work demanded, and when they were together they were utterly immersed in each other. Dorian didn’t mind when Richard had to go away with the band; his own work took him away sometimes too. Exactly what he did was nebulous – “Oh, darling, don’t ask me to go into it. Running these old estates gets so draining, I’m only glad I don’t have to think about it all the time.” 

Richard had never been to Dorian’s castle on the North Downs. The first time he’d asked about it, Dorian had said, “That draughty old pile of masonry? Forget any romantic notions you might have about castles, love; come and stay with me in London.” Three blissful weeks spent in Dorian’s luxurious flat in Mayfair wiped out any curiosity Richard had held at the time about Dorian’s family seat, and now, when they were together in London they split their time between the Mayfair flat and Richard’s house in Holland Park.

The fingers working on his neck and shoulders slowed, and drew away. Richard sighed contentedly. “That was divine,” he murmured.

Dorian lay down beside him. “I thought you’d gone to sleep.”

“Disappointed that I didn’t?” Richard rolled onto his side and pulled his lover close. Close enough for Dorian to feel his growing erection.

“Well, part of you is wide awake,” Dorian purred.

“Just the effect you have on me.” Richard’s lips brushed gently against his lover’s mouth. “Dorian? Fuck me. Please.”

Dorian looked hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“Please. I need you. You’re so alive. _I_ feel so alive when we’re fucking.”

Dorian replied with a kiss, gentle at first, and then deeper. 

.

.

.

In another hotel a few streets away Klaus, B and Z were reviewing Klaus’s notes from the meeting with Waterford and Tyler. 

“Either Waterford’s a better actor than I think he is, or he knew nothing about Carter’s connections with the Brigade,” Klaus remarked. “From what he and Tyler told us, Carter seems to have kept his activities hidden well.”

The phone rang. B answered, and immediately handed the receiver to Klaus. “It’s L, sir.”

“Agent L. Have you made any progress?”

“Sir, I believe we have a target for the bomb attack.”

L’s voice was agitated, loud enough for Z and B to hear what he was saying.

Klaus put the notes down. “Well, spit it out, man!” 

L took a deep breath. “Sir, I’ve been in touch with just about every organisation in the business world, but there are no conferences coming up in the next month or two. Not in Germany, anyway. Then I tried my government contacts, and the United Nations – and there was nothing. At least nothing they’d tell me about. Same with the military.”

Klaus ground his teeth. “Stop meandering, man. Get to the point.”

“Yes, sir. I’m getting to it, sir. I hadn’t made much progress with other agencies, so I thought, what about NATO? So I talked to our own scheduling and security people to see if there was anything on the NATO calendar. But my level of clearance wasn’t high enough to get far. So then – sorry, sir, but you’ll find out anyway – then I rang up and pretended to be you, sir.”

“YOU DID WHAT?”

“I pretended to be you, sir. I— sorry, sir, but I shouted a lot and swore at the scheduling clerk, and he let me have the information.”

Torn between outrage and admiration, Klaus forced himself to speak calmly. “Very resourceful, Agent L. If I have need of an impersonator in the future, I’ll bear you in mind.” He glared at Z and B, who were carefully avoiding looking at each other. “I’m pleased to hear my name carries some influence. So what did you learn?”

“Sir, five days from now, the Secretary General of NATO is holding a secret meeting with the Military Chiefs of Staff from all member nations at a place just outside Düsseldorf called Schloss Grüntal. It’s a secure centre owned by the government – they use it for high level meetings. We’ve cross-matched the blueprints you obtained in Istanbul, sir, and it’s Schloss Grüntal. I think we can say that the Purification Brigade is planning an attack to take out the Military Chiefs, sir.”

Z frowned. “The blueprints must be connected to their plans to infiltrate the building. But how the hell would they get in? Schloss Grüntal has the best security in western Europe.” He stopped. “Oh.”

Klaus nodded, his expression bleak. “They know about Eroica. And they plan to use him to get them in.”


	4. Chapter 4

Left-Handed Hummingbird played that night to a sold-out auditorium. The news of Liam Carter’s death appeared for the first time in the evening news bulletins, but many of the fans did not know about it until Richard opened the show by announcing Liam’s death and dedicating the performance to him.

"Liam always put music ahead of everything else. He would have wanted the show to go on. So we're playing tonight for Liam! Help us celebrate his life!" 

The audience gave a deafening cheer in response – and the show started with a song that featured Liam's most intricate bass work, recreated note for note in celebration of his mastery of the instrument.

In the second half of the show, Dorian went up to watch the performance from the wings. The audience was on its feet, dancing and swaying; the band members preened and posed, untouchable demi-gods tantalisingly just out of reach. Lion's-mane hair flying, Richard whirled across the stage, the guitar and bass weaving swirling sound-patterns around him. 

_‘Didn't know what I wanted till you called my name – Didn't know what I needed till you touched me,_ ’ he sang, then held the microphone out toward the audience.

 _‘Didn't know what I wanted till you called my name – Didn't know what I needed till you touched me,_ ’ they sang back at him. 

Hair shining like a red-gold halo under the stage lights, jewellery glinting, Richard danced down to the front of the stage where a throng of adoring fans stretched eager hands up toward him, faces yearning and hungry. Part pagan god, part courtesan, Richard was their erotic fantasy come to life.

Dorian gave a crooked grin. All those people out there, wanting Richard – and he, Dorian, was the one he would come home to. He, Dorian, was the one who was worth more to Richard than all these greedy, adoring fans.

The song ended in a roar of appreciation. Dorian faded back into the shadows, and made his way down to the dressing room to wait for Richard to finish the show. 

Alone in the relative peace of the dressing room, Dorian rummaged through a pile of magazines looking for something to read. Behind him, the door opened abruptly. Dorian turned, startled: the crew always knocked before they came into the dressing rooms. 

In the doorway, he saw the last man he expected to see – Klaus von dem Eberbach. 

Dorian recovered himself. “I don’t believe I heard you knock,” he said stiffly.

The Major came in, closing the door behind him. “Don’t tell me you still insist on tea-party manners in the midst of this travelling circus!” he snorted, derisive.

“Your manners certainly haven’t improved. What do you want, Major?” Dorian’s haughty tone and cold expression masked his shock. The Major was the last person he’d expected – and the last person he wanted to see. All the pain of those months when he had tried to forget the Major came rushing back, clawing at his heart.

“I may live to regret this, Eroica, but I’ve come to give you a warning. You’re in danger. You need to leave Germany. Get out as quickly as you can. Tonight.”

“What are you talking about? What danger? How dare you burst in here ordering me about? I think you should leave, before I call security.” 

Dorian turned, making for the door. Klaus seized him by the shoulder and spun him round to face him.

“Look, Limey, I’m telling you this for your own good. Christ knows why; I should leave you to the wolves, since you’re determined not to listen—”

“Don’t try to involve me in any of your testosterone-driven Boys’ Own adventures, Major. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear about it. And I have no intention of leaving Germany.”

“God damn it, Eroica, this isn’t a game. Look, there’s a group of people who are planning a terror attack in this country. After Liam Carter was killed—”

“Killed? What do you mean, ‘killed’? Liam died of a heart attack. The cocaine caught up with him.”

Klaus’s mouth set in a hard line. “Liam Carter was murdered.”

Dorian paled. “Murdered! Who—? Why—?” 

“He was involved with some very unsavoury characters – a hard-line communist faction of urban guerrillas called the Purification Brigade—”

“I don’t believe you! Liam didn’t have a political bone in his body! You can’t be serious!”

“He was acting as a courier. When they didn’t need him anymore, they got rid of him. You need to be aware – their interest in this freak show you’ve linked yourself up with may not be over. Whatever they’ve got planned, I want you out of here.”

Sarcasm twisted Dorian’s mouth. “Do you think I’m going to fuck up your mission, Major? That’s what you used to say.”

Klaus seized Dorian by the arm and dragged him closer, glaring into his face. 

“Look, idiot, anyone in this collection of halfwits could be connected with the people behind Carter’s death.” He shoved Dorian away from him. “Have you told Waterford about your criminal connections? No? Rest assured, the people who were running Carter are better informed. We have reason to believe you’re on their list as their next recruit.”

“Me? What would they want with me?”

“You have underworld connections. You have skills they could use. They’d have ways of making you do what they want, whether you’re willing or not. And you’re expendable. Once you’ve reached the end of your usefulness, they’d get rid of you. Like Carter. Think about it, thief. You’re not safe here, and the sooner you’re out of the way, the better for everyone. Go home. Go back to North Downs and keep your head down for a few months.”

Panic and confusion were plain on Dorian’s face but he didn’t look as if he was going to cooperate.

“I’ll arrange protection for you until you get home,” Klaus offered.

Dorian’s expression hardened. “I’m not going anywhere. Richard might be in danger. I’m staying with him.”

With an iron grip, Klaus seized Dorian’s wrist. “Waterford might be involved in this – have you thought of that? He might _be_ the danger. Or if the Brigade does target you, you’ll be endangering him yourself. Fuck it, Eroica – can’t you see that you’ll be doing everyone a favour if you get out of here right now?”

Behind them, the door to the dressing room opened.

“What’s going on here?” 

Klaus looked over Dorian’s shoulder to see a man standing in the doorway, a shaven headed, tattooed, solid block of muscle, the word ‘Security’ printed in faded white lettering on his black singlet.

“Is this man annoying you, my lord?”

Klaus let go of Dorian’s wrist. 

Dorian turned to the man and said, “He’s annoying me very much – but he’s just leaving. Perhaps you could show him the way out, Vern?”

The man in the doorway jerked his head sharply. “You heard. This way.”

Klaus glared at Dorian one last time and followed the muscle-bound security man through the maze of backstage corridors to the side entry. Not a word was exchanged. Klaus gave the man a hostile glare as he left the building, and he didn’t look back as he heard the door clang shut behind him.

Dorian stared blankly at the wall. He was shaking; he felt cold.

 _Christ, what’s wrong with me?_

Forcing himself to move, he crossed the room and picked up the bottle of brandy Richard always kept in his dressing room. Dorian poured himself a stiff drink, and gulped down a burning mouthful.

Upstairs in the auditorium the sounds rose to a crescendo. The band had finished their last set, and the crowd was screaming for more. Dorian knew Richard and the others would be standing in the wings, letting the crowd whip itself into a frenzy. The muffled distant sounds morphed from a formless roar into rhythmic chanting and clapping. “More! More! More!”

He listened, visualising the band gauging the crowd’s impatience – then the screaming and applause erupted again, and he knew the band had gone back on stage to play their encore. There’d be three more songs, finishing with ‘Freedom’s Burning’, the big hit from their first album.

 _God, why am I feeling so shaky?_

The Major had startled him, bursting in like that. Was it true what he’d said – that Liam had been murdered? That he was involved in politics and terrorism? Urban guerillas, for god’s sake. It had to be true: why else would the Major be involved? And what about his warning that the people who’d killed Liam might want to force him to help them? 

Dorian felt sick. He topped up his brandy glass and crawled onto the couch in the corner. 

Seeing Klaus again after all this time had upset him. He’d invested so much in forgetting about the man; he didn’t want to have to deal with him again. _“I’m telling you this for your own good._ ” Who else but the Major could make a helpful warning sound like a threat? 

The Major always had been like an enraged bull in a pen; he’d always given the impression he was about to shout, or hit someone, or break something. Once, Dorian had thought all that barely-contained fury was sexy. How had he ever thought that? How had he endured all those years of living with unrequited love – why had he ever believed it was worth all the heartache? Making the decision to stop chasing that maniac was the best choice he’d ever made. 

It hadn’t been easy. The pain in those first few months – it was as if he’d ripped his own heart out. The pitying looks he’d got from his men hadn’t helped. He’d been a mess.

Then he’d met Richard.

He sipped his brandy, and this time he let the scorching liquid roll across his tongue, savouring the flavour. 

Since he’d met Richard, he’d been happy. They’d met at an exhibition opening. Dorian had been invited by the gallery owner, who liked to have art collectors at his openings. Richard was a friend of the exhibiting artist. They’d left the opening early, gone back to Richard’s house, and had the most glorious sex. They were made for each other, he thought; Richard was everything he could ever dream of in a lover. 

Voices in the corridor outside pulled Dorian’s attention back from his thoughts. The door opened, and Richard came in, laughing, flushed with excitement. “Dorian, love! We’ve conquered Düsseldorf!” 

Dorian smiled weakly.

The laughter disappeared from Richard’s face. “Dorian, are you all right? Has something happened?” Concerned, he sat down next to his lover, lifting the now-empty brandy glass out of his hand. 

“It’s all right, Richard. I’m just feeling tired. If you don’t mind, I won’t come to the after-party with you; I think I need to get some sleep.”

Concern wrinkled Richard’s brow. “All right, then, love,” he said uncertainly. “Get Vern to drive you back to the hotel. I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.” He kissed Dorian gently, and was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Dorian woke the next morning as Richard was dressing in his gym clothes.

He smiled up at his lover through tousled curls. “Good morning, love. How was the party?”

“It was fine. I didn’t stay long.” Richard looked worried. “Dorian, Vern told me that some thug was abusing you in the dressing room last night. What was that all about?”

Dorian winced. 

“Dorian? Who was it?”

He sighed. “It was Major von dem Eberbach.”

“The one you used to be in love with?”

Dorian’s lips twisted bitterly. “The same. Christ, Richard, he’s nothing but a swinish bully; how could I ever have been in love with a man like that?”

“What did he want, Dorian?” 

“He said—” Dorian stopped. 

_He said your best friend was a courier for a communist urban guerrilla group and that they murdered him. Then he said you might be involved, and that they want to recruit me next._

That sounded preposterous. He couldn’t say that. Richard had been gutted by Liam’s death; he didn’t need to hear about the Major’s cloak and dagger dealings.

Richard was staring anxiously into his eyes. Dorian arranged a faint smile on his features. 

“He was looking for someone else. It’s nothing, Richard. I got upset because it was him. I haven’t seen him for eighteen months and it just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“So why was he raising his voice at you? Vern said he was threatening you.”

“Richard, the Major only knows one way to behave: he shouts and threatens all the time. Really, love, it was nothing. I don’t want to think about him any more. Please, Richard, let’s forget about it.”

“All right,” Richard said doubtfully. He bent over and kissed Dorian. “I’m going down to do a few circuits. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Well, while you’re gone, I might go and have breakfast at that café just down the road. Their croissants are better than the hotel’s.” Dorian smiled, tangling his fingers in Richard’s hair. “Don’t use up all your energy, love. Save some for me.”

Richard kissed Dorian again and headed for the door.

.

.

.

Twenty minutes later, Dorian emerged from the hotel and walked down the street to the café. He settled himself into a seat by the window and perused the menu, breathing in the heavenly scent of freshly baked pastries. The sun slanted through the glass, warming his back. He ordered coffee and croissants, bestowing a dazzling smile on the young waiter who took his order. 

Life was good. He’d been upset the previous night, but he was not going to let the Major disrupt his life again. He was going to ignore everything the Major had said about Liam, and he was certainly not going to take any notice of what he’d suggested about Richard being involved in some communist plot. The man was absurd. Seeing the Major again really hadn’t affected him at all; it would only affect him if he let it. 

When his breakfast arrived, he ate slowly, savouring every mouthful, and accepted a second cup of coffee with another dazzling smile at the young waiter. 

Yes, life was good. 

Dorian left the café, and walked at a leisurely pace along the street, enjoying the sunshine. Richard might already be back from the gym. Perhaps he could entice him back to bed for an hour or two?

His train of thought was interrupted as two men fell into step beside him, one on either side. 

“Keep walking, please, Lord Gloria,” one of them said in a low voice. “Don’t do anything to draw attention. We’d like you to come with us. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

Dorian’s steps slowed; he glanced from one man to the other. 

“No, keep walking, please,” the second man said. “I have a weapon trained on you. I’d prefer not to use it. Please be so good as to turn down this side street.”

The next moment, Dorian found himself being forcibly steered into a narrow lane, where a dark blue car was waiting with the boot open. Then, a strong hand covered his mouth and nose with a damp cloth, and blackness descended.

.

.

.

That afternoon, Agent Z took his turn monitoring the listening devices they’d placed in Left-Handed Hummingbird’s rooms. 

The previous night, while the Major was at the theatre looking for Eroica, Z and B had paid a visit to the band’s hotel. They’d arrived wearing overalls and carrying tool boxes, and had presented the desk clerk with what looked like a work order from the company that serviced the hotel’s elevators. B wove a complicated story about a rash of complaints earlier in the day, and claimed that the manager had insisted the problem be rectified within twenty-four hours – hence the arrival of a service team at nine o’clock at night. 

The desk clerk had shrugged. He said he hadn’t heard about any elevator maintenance, but nobody ever told him a thing – so he’d waved them through without checking their credentials very thoroughly.

The band and their entourage were all at the theatre, so the third floor was completely empty. They shut down the elevators, sealed off access to the area, and set to work installing bugs in all the rooms. An hour and a half later, they reappeared at the front desk, assured the clerk the elevators were all working properly now, and left. The clerk took so little notice of them that five minutes after they’d gone he wouldn’t have been able to give anyone a decent description.

They hadn’t been back at their own hotel very long when the Major had returned, raging about idiot Englishmen who didn’t know how to keep out of trouble and bull-headed security men who could do nothing but use their muscle. B had gone off to monitor the listening station, looking relieved to have a legitimate excuse to get out of the room, leaving Z to listen as the Major vented his wrath. 

Z yawned, and looked at his watch. Dull work – most of the time, there was nothing to hear. Then, after hours of boredom, he heard something that made him sit up in his chair, wide-eyed and alert.

He went through to the next room, where Klaus and B were going over papers faxed through from Bonn. “I’ve got something you should hear, sir. It came through just a minute ago.” 

The three gathered round the equipment. Z fiddled with the tape recorder hooked into the monitoring system. There were some indistinct muffled sounds, and then—

_“Vern, have you seen Lord Gloria?”_

_“No, Mr Waterford. Haven’t seen him since I brought him back to the hotel last night.”_

_“He said was going to have breakfast at that café down the street this morning. That was about eight o’clock. He hasn’t come back.” ___

_“Gone shopping, maybe? Gone for a walk?”_

_“He wouldn’t just disappear like this! He’s been gone for hours!”_

_“He was shaken up last night after that bloke was harassing him in the dressing room. You don’t suppose he’s just gone off to be by himself for a while?”_

_“No, Dorian just wouldn’t do that. He didn’t seem upset this morning – and why would he hide it from me if he was? Vern, I’m worried. This isn’t like him. Look – could you ask the others if they’ve seen him?”_

Z paused the tape. “What do you think, sir? If Eroica’s disappeared, do you think he might have been snatched by the Brigade?”

Klaus frowned. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions – after all, the fool _might_ have just gone off shopping. But Waterford sounded concerned, and we know it’s possible the Brigade’s been watching him, waiting for their chance.”

“Surely he wouldn’t cooperate, though, would he?” 

“If the Brigade’s got hold of him, they’ll find a way to pressure him into doing their dirty work. Everyone’s got a price; everyone’s got something they can be threatened with. And once they’ve got him under control, he’ll get them into the building: I don’t think there’s a security system in Europe I’d trust to keep Eroica out. Agent B – call Headquarters. Upgrade the watch on Schloss Grüntal from surveillance to attack-response. If the Brigade has got Eroica, we can expect them to move sooner rather than later. Our best option is to be ready to catch them in the act.”

“That strategy will put Eroica at risk, sir,” B commented.

“You think I don’t know that, idiot? There’s no practical alternative. We’ll try to extract him without harm, if we can. Get Headquarters moving on this – and we’ll need military backup. Z – back to work on those listening devices. We don’t want to miss any new developments.”

As his agents went off to attend to their tasks, Klaus pondered the situation.

They’d be better resourced than the Brigade – if they could take the Brigade by surprise, they should be able to overpower them with minimal casualties. They’d have to attempt to get Eroica out unscathed. There would be some risk to him if there was an open exchange of fire – but the greatest risk to his safety would be from the Brigade itself. Very likely, they’d use him as a human shield – if they didn’t kill him themselves just to shut him up before he could be interrogated. 

No – that couldn’t be allowed to happen. Klaus would make getting him out early a priority. After all, Eroica was a NATO asset, and they needed him unharmed so he could be questioned. Wanting to get him out of the clutches of a pack of ruthless terrorists who would have no compunction about killing him had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. It wasn’t as if Klaus had any personal regard for Eroica – this was strictly business.


	6. Chapter 6

After being manhandled into the boot of a car, out again, up a flight of stairs and along what felt like a maze of passageways, Dorian was thrust roughly into a chair and the hood that had been placed over his head was pulled off.

He blinked in the sudden bright light. He could see three people: two men and a woman, all armed. One of the men stepped forward, pried loose the corner of the tape covering his mouth, and ripped it off. Dorian swore, and flexed his facial muscles to combat the stinging. 

“Well, now, Lord Gloria,” the man said, “As you see, we have you at a disadvantage. It would be best for you if you cooperate.”

Dorian didn’t answer. He looked from one face to the next, memorising their features. When he got out of here – if he got out of here – he wanted to be able to give good descriptions to the authorities. 

The man stepped in front of Dorian, towering over him. “We have a business proposition to put to you.”

“Ransom, I suppose.” Dorian’s voice was full of contempt.

“No. We want you to assist us with a project we are engaged on. You see, _Eroica_ , you have particular skills that will be of use to us.”

Dorian felt his stomach turn over. _Fuck. These are the people who killed Liam. The Major was right._

Shoving aside a frisson of fear, he said, “Why should I help a pack of common thugs?”

In reply, the man backhanded Dorian across the face. “You would be well advised to cooperate with us. That way, no harm will come to your friend Richard Waterford.”

Dorian glared at him balefully. “Richard’s surrounded by a hand-picked security team. I don’t think you’ll be able to harm him.”

The man chuckled nastily. “Such faith. Band security’s good enough for keeping away hysterical fans and nosy journalists, but beyond that they aren’t much use. They were no use to Liam Carter, were they?” He glanced at the woman, and they exchanged a grin. “The band’s security team let Oksana in quite happily, without so much as searching her handbag. Show them a low-cut dress and nice pair of legs, and they’re useless.”

Oksana smirked. “Be fair, Dirk. They did call his room to see if he was expecting me.” She leered at Dorian. “I was collecting a package for the Brigade. Since the handover was made in his hotel room, we both thought it would be a shame not to enjoy the opportunity. Pity I had to kill him; he was quite a good fuck.”

Dorian swallowed hard; he looked back at the man.

“So, Eroica, as you see – we are capable of carrying out our threats. If you care anything for your friend’s safety, you’ll cooperate with us. Then, Waterford will come to no harm.” He turned to the others. “Come, let’s leave our Comrade to think it over.” 

They went out of the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind them. Dorian sat in the dark, trying to think rationally. Refusal to cooperate would probably result in harm coming to both Richard and himself. If he did what they wanted, they’d most likely kill him afterwards anyway. Whichever way you looked at it, the situation was grim.

He had no idea how many hours had passed when he heard them coming back. The light flicked on, harsh and bright.

“Well, Eroica? What do you say?”

“You don’t give me much choice. I’ll cooperate. Why don’t you untie me and tell me what you want me to do?”

The two men hauled Dorian to his feet, hands still bound, and hustled him down the passageway to a larger room, where two other men stood waiting. Dorian was shoved onto another chair. The one called Dirk wrenched his hands up roughly and sawed through his bindings with a large hunting knife. 

“These are the men you’ll be working with. They call the shots. Comrade Solak, Comrade Vasnetsov.”

Rubbing his wrists, Dorian glanced from one to the other, and said nothing. Vasnetsov nodded once. Solak appraised Dorian through narrowed eyes, his lip curling slightly. 

Vasnetsov spoke first. “You were recommended to us, Comrade Eroica. Your abilities are said to be considerable.” 

Solak grimaced in disgust, and muttered something about the parasitic ruling classes. He eyed Dorian mistrustfully. “I should warn you, Comrade Eroica. I don’t trust men of your background, and I don’t trust class traitors. You’re doubly damned. You have to prove yourself.”

Dorian met Solak’s gaze, unflinching. “I’m a professional. I take pride in my work.” _And I’m not going to be intimidated by you, you lout._

Solak glowered back pugnaciously, and then with a contemptuous snort he slouched off to doze in a chair in the corner. 

Vasnetsov unrolled the charts on the tabletop. “Come on, then. Let’s get going.” He nodded at Dirk, who shepherded the others out of the room.

Dorian sat down at the table opposite Vasnetsov, and together they turned their attention to the charts. 

.

.

.

For the next two hours, Dorian pored over the papers, checking and re-checking, matching the blueprints with the security schematics, comparing what he saw in the documents with his previous experience. 

_I shouldn’t be enjoying this,_ he thought. _These people are terrorists. This is all about killing people – a lot of people. They killed Liam. They’ll kill Richard if I can’t pull this off. They’ll most likely kill me after it’s over._

He knew all this – and yet, the thrill of the chase, the challenge of cracking a new puzzle, drew him in inexorably. The system’s superior technology and elegance of design – it was a work of art. The prospect of pitting his skills against it was enticing.

Vasnetsov interrupted his thoughts. “Comrade Eroica? Are you ready?” 

Dorian sat back, stretching, frowning at the notes he’d made. _Now or never_. 

“Yes. All right.”

Vasnetsov woke Solak, who was snoring quietly, and called the others back into the room. Five expectant faces focused on Dorian, ready to hear his assessment of the building and its security.

“It’s a sophisticated system,” Dorian began. “I’ve only seen one other like it – in a privately owned art museum in Amsterdam. That was a smaller system in a smaller building, but the principles were the same.” He allowed himself the hint of a smile aimed in Vasnetsov’s direction. “The museum was robbed about four months ago – they lost a rather fine portrait of the Archangel Gabriel, by Lucas van Leyden. You possibly read about it.”

Vasnetsov smirked almost imperceptibly. Solak looked unimpressed.

Dorian took up a blank sheet of paper and a pencil, and began to sketch a simplified diagram to clarify what the schematics told him.

“Let’s assume this is Schloss Grüntal.” He sketched an outline corresponding to the building’s footprint. “If I can put it in layman’s terms, it’s a triple-layered system. The sensors and relays are run in three concentric courses, each operating independently of the other. Each is powered by a separate source, which enters the building at a different point.” As he spoke, Dorian rapidly sketched lines representing the wiring of the system, marking in the salient features as he went. “Now, to disable the system, all three courses need to be taken offline at once. If you don’t do all three simultaneously, as soon as the first is cut, the remaining circuits trigger the alarm.”

Solak, looking interested in spite of himself, leaned forward. “Are you saying we need three people to disable the system?”

“No. There’s another way around it. The system has a weak spot. I don’t know why the installers were allowed to get away with it. See, here.” Dorian drew an arrow on the schematics chart. “At this point, all three courses pass through a section of the internal wall within two metres of each other. By installing bypass loops here – and here – and here, we can fool the system into thinking it’s still operating at full capability. In fact, the only section that will be working will be the line of sensors here by the front entrance.” He drew a line around a section of his sketch plan. “We’ll still have to be alert to the security guards – but providing we avoid this sector of the building, we can operate without being detected by the electronics. The rest of the system will have been rendered deaf, dumb and blind.” 

He tossed the pencil onto the tabletop and sat back, triumphant.

Vasnetsov jabbed his finger at the arrow on the schematics chart. “That weak spot, as you call it, is in the centre of the building. How will you get in to install the bypass loops?”

“Through the roof.”

Solak frowned. “Our Comrades have reported that the grounds are patrolled by men with dogs. You’ll have to scale the wall and cross the roof unseen.”

“If I let myself be intimidated by dogs, Solak, I wouldn’t have got to where I am today. Trust me. I’ll get in.”

Discussions continued through the night. By dawn, the plans had been fleshed out and developed into a finely-tuned timetable. Dorian would enter the building and disable the system; Vasnetsov and Solak would enter, place their explosives and set up the timers; Dorian would re-arm the system after the others had left the building. The other three would stand by at the perimeter, ready to create a diversion if anything went wrong. As visual cues were not possible, everything had to run according to the timetable. 

Dorian gathered all the papers together and rolled up the charts. “Providing you all stick to the allocated time, things should go smoothly. My men and I never go into a building without doing a simulation, but we don’t have time for that. We’ll just have to trust each other’s abilities.”

Dirk stood up. “Right, everybody – get some sleep. Eroica – use that mattress in the corner. And don’t forget,” – here he lowered his voice to a menacing growl – “your friend Richard Waterford’s safety depends on your success. Fuck up, and he dies. Slowly.”


	7. Chapter 7

In the confined space beneath a little-used staircase at the heart of Schloss Grüntal, Dorian leaned back against the wall, breathing quietly. He looked at his stopwatch. Seventeen minutes. 

He’d got in unobserved, as he’d said he would, and installed the bypass loops in record time. That museum in Amsterdam had been a good trial run. According to their timetable, Vasnetsov and Solak should both be in, with their work well under way.

A sudden noise caught his attention – faint, far-off, muffled by the massive walls of the old building. 

A gunshot. 

Dorian strained to listen. Two more shots followed.

_Christ, we’re under fire._

Dirk and the others were supposed to be watching the perimeter. One of them must have been seen. 

He glanced at the stopwatch. Vasnetsov and Solak would still be placing their explosives – less than halfway through their work. 

_And they won’t leave till it’s done._

_But—_

_Fuck, I can get out of here!_

He headed for the rooftop. Emerging from the narrow gap he’d opened between the slate shingles, Dorian kept his head down and made for the parapet, darting from shadow to shadow. Below, he could hear dogs barking and snarling, angry shouting, bursts of gunfire. 

Most of the uproar was coming from the southern side of the building. If he could make it down the narrow chimney of shadow at the corner that had shielded his ascent, he could bolt for the woods and leave the others to it – he could get back to the city, find Richard, and make sure he wasn’t in danger.

There was a volley of gunfire. Flattening himself into the shadows, Dorian peered down over the edge. Right below his hiding place, he saw Dirk and the nameless gunman exchanging fire with a man in combat uniform. Another burst of fire, and the soldier went down. 

Dorian slumped onto the roof behind the parapet, willing the men to head away from his position. Below, there was more shouting. Savage barking. Someone yelling, “Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon!” Another shot, and the sickening thud of bullets hitting flesh. He peered over the edge again. Dirk was standing over a fallen man; he fired at point blank range, and the man’s body went limp.

From out of the shadows, Major von dem Eberbach emerged, magnum in hand. He fired at the nameless gunman, and the man fell, dropping his rifle. Before the Major could turn, Dirk sprang at him from behind and knocked him to the ground. The two men grappled ferociously; there was a flash of steel as Dirk lashed out with his hunting knife.

Action took over from thought. Dorian sprinted across to the corner of the roof, seized the rope fastened there and abseiled down the side of the building. As soon as his feet touched the ground he was running toward them. 

Turning, Dirk lunged at Dorian, seized hold of him and shoved him head-first against the wall. The thief crumpled into a semi-conscious heap, blood streaming down into his eyes. The world spun crazily as he fought back the blackness. 

Blood was darkening the Major’s shirt, his right arm hung awkwardly, and he’d dropped his gun – but he lurched at Dirk and threw him backwards. Dirk landed on his back, rolled over, and picked up his rifle. 

Unsteady, nauseous, Dorian hauled himself upright, trying to focus on what was happening around him. 

The Major was struggling to stand. Dirk took aim—

Dorian snatched up the nameless gunman’s rifle and, holding it by the barrel, swung it at Dirk’s head. There was a hideous crack like a wooden beam breaking – and the man fell in an ungainly heap.

The Major staggered to his feet. Blood welled up from the deep knife wound in his shoulder; more blood streamed down the side of his face from a gash over his left eye. 

Dorian dropped the rifle and loped across to help him. 

The Major pushed him away. “You fucking idiot! You could have been killed!”

Fury blazed in Dorian’s eyes. “You were about to _be_ killed! If I hadn’t intervened you’d be dead now, you ungrateful bastard!” 

Klaus’s fingers dived into Dorian’s hair, where it was plastered to his head with blood. Dorian hissed as the probing fingers found a ragged gash. 

“You have a head wound, you bloody fool. Sit down over there and stay still.”

“Major, I’m perfectly all right!”

“Sit down and do as you’re told. I’m in command here, and I don’t want you wandering around getting in the way.”

A smile danced at the edge of Dorian’s lips; being ordered around by the Major seemed so familiar. Obediently, he went and sat down by the edge of the wall. 

“Now, stay there, you bloody nuisance. When the medics arrive I’ll get them to look at you.”

Dorian watched as on the slope below him, the Major strode about barking orders at his own men and the military back-up team alike. The man was magnificent. He was Mars and Jupiter, he was warrior and judge and protector, all rolled into one. The way he’d taken on those two Brigade thugs! Even from where he sat, Dorian could see the passion burning in the Major’s eyes. Battle was his natural element. It brought out the best in him. Like a warrior of old, ready to face death and bring retribution down on his enemies. 

Perhaps that was an exaggeration. Dorian smiled ruefully: the Major had always made him think in superlatives.

He _was_ a magnificent man, though. It was this side of the Major that he’d fallen in love with. But loving the Major had caused him so much pain; and then, trying to forget him had torn him apart. Richard had been the one who’d put him back together again.

Blocking out the noise and bustle below, Dorian thought about his life with Richard. Things couldn’t be better, really. Richard was gorgeous; Dorian was the envy of everyone. And Richard adored him. Their life together was fun, full of glamour and excitement. With Richard, he felt loved, and cherished, and safe.

_Safe._

Did he really want to be safe?

It was Richard’s delight to cosset and protect him. After being rejected time after time by the Major, he’d revelled in being pampered. But sometimes…

He and Richard didn’t know everything about each other. Dorian wouldn’t let Richard tell him about his old lovers, or the things he’d done when he was young and wild, before he gave up the drugs. He’d never told Richard about Eroica. In the times they spent apart, he said he was attending to business on his estate. That was true, of course. It was just that Richard imagined estate business was all about maintaining old buildings and keeping the family heirlooms intact. He had no idea that Dorian’s castle housed the most efficient art theft enterprise the world had ever known.

“Eroica! Wake up, you bloody wanker.” The Major’s voice jolted him back to reality. “The medics have arrived. Get your arse down here and let them look at your head wound. Then you’ll have to come in for debriefing.”

.

.

.

Dorian’s debriefing took hours. Klaus led the questioning; Agent B sat beside him taking notes and handing over documents when they were needed. Everything Dorian could remember about Liam Carter was wrung from his memory, every moment of his captivity, every detail of the attempt on Schloss Grüntal, every minute recollection about Vasnetsov, Solak and the others. By the end of it, he felt exhausted, physically and emotionally.

The Major looked at his watch. “Interview concluded at 1350 hours.” He switched off the tape recorder. “B, go and find us some coffee. Or would you prefer tea, Lord Gloria?”

“Yes, tea. Thank you,” Dorian said, although he was really too tired to care. The painkillers he’d been given by the medics were wearing off, and the wound in his scalp was starting to throb. Gingerly, he probed with his fingertips, hissing at the discomfort.

“Make sure you get that seen to properly,” Klaus said tersely. “Are you going to go home to England after this?”

“Why would I? I’m perfectly all right, Major, and I intend to stay with Richard.”

“A word of advice, Eroica. This business probably isn’t over. We’ve got rid of this particular cell and the meeting of Military Chiefs can go ahead, but the Purification Brigade will have ants in its pants for a while yet. They’ll be looking for some way to make up for this failure. It doesn’t matter to me what you do with yourself, Eroica, but you’ve seen how your way of life leaves you open to being exploited by fanatics. Why don’t you go back to your castle and play at being Lord of the Manor?”

“Major, you can’t be serious. Where’s the excitement in that?” Dorian’s tone was flippant, but the words rang true. 

“You’re addicted to risk and danger – you can’t help yourself, can you?”

The door opened, and B pushed his way in carrying three steaming mugs. Before he could sit at the table, Klaus said, “B, go down to the records office and see if you can find anything else there about the prisoners.”

“Sir?” B looked confused.

“Go on, you blockhead, go and see if the files we have are complete.”

Perplexed, B picked up his coffee, and headed out of the door. Klaus turned back to Dorian.

“You know, a man of your talents should be making a positive contribution to society, not misusing his skills as a bloody criminal. It’s not as if you need to steal to live, is it? Your country’s security forces could use skills like yours.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Major, why do I feel like I’m back at school, and I’ve been sent to see the vocational guidance officer?”

Klaus huffed, annoyed. “Very well, then – waste your life.” He downed the last of his coffee, and clunked the mug loudly onto the table top. “Come on. I’ll have Z drive you back to your hotel. Make sure you tell him how to get in touch with you after you leave Düsseldorf. We may need to speak to you again.”

.

.

.

Dorian felt so exhausted he didn’t even have the energy to flirt with Agent Z on the drive back to the hotel. 

Richard would have been worrying about him. He knew he’d have to tell him the whole story. 

_Moment of truth._ Dorian sighed. _I’ve always known I’d have to tell him about Eroica some time._

He took the lift to the third floor, and walked in to their suite unannounced. 

“Dorian!” Richard leapt to his feet, pulling him into an embrace. “Dorian! Thank god you’re safe. I was so worried about you. Why didn’t you tell me if you were upset?” Then— “Dorian, you’ve been bleeding. You’ve got bruises on your face. What happened? Are you all right?”

In reply, Dorian tightened his arms around Richard, and they rocked together silently. 

“What happened, love?” Richard said at last, voice muffled in Dorian’s hair. “Where have you been?”

Slowly, Dorian eased back from their embrace so he could see his lover’s face.

“Richard, I was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Richard echoed. “Dorian— what happened?”

Dorian felt his resolve wavering. How would Richard take the news that he’d been kidnapped to help a terrorist group break into a building?

_No, he has to know. I have to tell him._

He took a deep breath. “Richard, I was taken by an urban guerrilla group. They were planning a bomb attack on a government building—”

“Jesus, Dorian! You could have been badly hurt! They could have— Oh, fuck, anything could have happened.” Richard looked horrified. “Dorian, love, I’ll never let anything like this happen to you again. I’ll keep you safe, Dorian. I promise.”

 _Safe._ There was that word again. 

“Why did they take you, love? Was it money? Were they going to hold you for ransom?”

For a split second, Dorian considered lying. Then, he sighed. “No. They wanted me to get them past the security system so they could set their explosives.”

Richard frowned, bewildered. “How could you get them past the security system?” 

“Richard, there are very few people who could get into that building undetected – but I happen to be one of them. Richard, I’m a thief.”

Richard stared at him. “What?”

Dorian scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Richard, I’m sorry. I’ve lied to you since the moment I met you. I’m an art thief.”

Richard jerked away from him abruptly. “This is crap, Dorian. I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you should. You’ve never set foot inside my home, have you?”

“Of course I have!”

“In London, yes; but you’ve never been to Castle Gloria, have you? I told you I wouldn’t take you there because it’s a creaky old ruin. That’s not true. You haven’t been there because that’s where I run my operations. I’ve been a thief all my life, Richard. It pulled the estate out of bankruptcy after my father died, and I’ve never stopped – because I like it. I’m good at it. It’s who I am.”

“Dorian…” Richard was lost for words.

“Richard, when we met, it was the best thing that had happened to me for years. I loved you from day one; I still love you. You have to believe that, if you can. I’ve always told you the truth about that. But I’ve lied to you about who I am.”

With shaking hands, Richard poured himself a drink, swallowed it down, and poured another. He didn’t trust himself to speak; he felt confused and hurt.

It was Dorian who broke the uncomfortable silence between them.

“Richard, I know this is a lot to take in. Perhaps I should have been more honest with you, but telling someone you’re a thief isn’t something you do lightly. Knowledge like that brings its own burdens. I thought— I thought for a long time it was best if you didn’t know.”

The anguish in Richard’s eyes tore at Dorian’s heart. 

“Richard, I realise this might mean we can’t stay together.” It was as near to an apology as Dorian could offer.

“Are you going to leave me, Dorian?”

“No. I want to stay with you, Richard. I _will_ stay with you if you’ll have me. But you’ll have to come to terms with the fact that I’m not who you thought I was. And you’ll have to live with knowing what I am, and what I do.”

Richard folded Dorian into a crushing embrace. “Dorian, I need you. Stay with me. Whatever you’ve done in the past doesn’t matter. I’ll keep you safe.”

_Safe._

“Take me to bed, Richard. Let’s make the world go away for a while.”

They locked the door and took the phone off the hook, and for the next hour there was no yesterday or tomorrow, only _now_ , only the feel and taste and scent of each other.

Afterward, lying with Richard asleep beside him, Dorian could hear music playing faintly through the wall. Someone in the next room was playing one of Left-Handed Hummingbird’s albums. He could hear Richard’s voice, intertwined with the soaring guitar line:

_My heart’s in your hands and freedom’s burning_  
 _Will you hold me close or throw my love away?_  
 _When freedom burns the bridges and the walls of your city_  
 _Though the open road is calling, will you stay?_


	8. Chapter 8

Fourteen days after the Düsseldorf affair, Klaus was sent to see a doctor to check on his progress. The knife wound in his shoulder was healing fast; the stitches would be ready to come out the next week. The doctor had been less than pleased, though, to learn that Klaus was still taking the sleeping pills he’d prescribed. 

“They were meant to help you sleep while your wound was fresh,” the doctor admonished, “they’re not supposed to become a crutch for long term sleep problems.” 

The truth was Klaus generally had no trouble sleeping. He was still taking the pills because while he was taking them, he didn’t dream. Or maybe he did – he just couldn’t remember. He disliked taking pills for anything, but right now, he needed to keep the dreams at bay. Of course, he didn’t tell the doctor any of this; mentioning dreams would only lead to a referral to a NATO psychiatrist. Klaus just dodged the most direct questions, and promised to wean himself off.

Back at Headquarters, he shut himself in his office. He had a small team keeping a watch on the Purification Brigade, alert for further trouble, but the meeting of Military Chiefs had been held without further incident.

The transcript of Eroica’s debriefing was still lying on his desk. Eroica’s evidence had given them what they needed to break the ringleaders and shut down the Brigade’s activities. Without him, they wouldn’t have been able to close the operation successfully. 

He was also the reason Klaus had lived through the assault on Schloss Grüntal. Eroica had called him an ungrateful bastard. He was right. The thief had saved his life and he hadn’t so much as thanked him.

Eroica was probably back in England by now with Waterford, the band’s tour concluded. Klaus wondered if the thief had told his lover why he’d been kidnapped, or if he’d lied to him. It gave Klaus some satisfaction to think that Waterford had never seen Eroica at work: his meticulous skill, the focus and logic he was capable of, his reckless courage. Without seeing that, Waterford could only have an incomplete appreciation of the man.

Still, there was plenty Klaus didn’t know about Eroica – things Waterford _would_ know. 

Things Klaus didn’t want to know. Wasn’t even curious about. At all.

He shoved the thoughts aside. The mission was finished, the pills were blotting out the dreams, and Eroica had gone back to live the decadent life with his deviant lover. And Klaus would never see him again. And that was a good thing.

The phone rang.

“Von dem Eberbach!” It was that fat slug of a Chief. “I need you to come up to my office for a briefing in an hour’s time. We have a situation – I need you to lead a team to infiltrate a secret military compound inside Soviet territory. It’ll involve penetrating complex security systems; I want you to think about which of your boys can handle that.”

Klaus drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then he took a leap of faith.

“I know an independent operative we could hire; he’s the best.”

“Well then, von dem Eberbach, you’d better check his availability. There’s a lot riding on this operation. We can’t afford to screw up.”

 _No_ , thought Klaus, _neither can I._

 

 

~ end ~

**Author's Note:**

> In Chapter 6, Dorian mentions a painting of the Archangel Gabriel by the early 16th century Dutch painter and engraver Lucas van Leyden. This particular painting is fictional. Van Leyden's paintings and engravings - both religious and secular - have a great sense of character and narrative. I'm sure Dorian would like his work.


End file.
